Before I tell you what happened.... to be continued

Before I tell you what happened, I have to tell you who I am

I am a strong womon, a womon who does not cower, a womon who confronts bigotry

Before I tell you what he did, I have to tell you how I stand in the world

I stand tall on Mother Earth, her black richness absorbed thru my feet, (my feet rooted in her black richness) my being flowing from the womyn who came before me, the womyn who are here, the womyn who are to come

Before I tell you the story of violence, I have to tell you the story of survival

I am daughter, granddaughter of survivors of the Holocaust; I am the survivor of the isms: racism, sexism, anti-lesbianism; I am the survivor of my husband’s violence

Before I tell you the story of my husband’s violence, I have to tell you how I ended it

His angry footfalls booming warning up the stairs; my baby, four weeks old, whisked off hidden in the bedroom closet, begging her not to cry; the square, aluminum-clad electric frying pan filled with steaming sloppy joes, the red arrow twisted from warm to high.

Before I tell you what he did, I have to tell you how I would not allow it to happen

I face him, no longer pregnant, my very being now directed from protecting the life inside me to protecting me … 43 years ago

Before I tell you what happened today, I have to tell you who I have become

I am a womon who does not allow men to touch me, let alone to make me weak

I am a womon who calmly, with fear morphing into courage, faces white violence, male violence, all violence, a womon who watches for, challenges, dissipates, undermines violence even

I am a womon who chooses to be me in the world, despite the pervasive hovering dominance of white & male violence

Before I tell you what the violent white male stranger did today, I have to tell you what my violent husband did then

He swept my wooden broom resting in the corner next to the metal garbage can, into his huge, angry hands, advancing towards my back as I slip the plug out of the frying pan and with my two determined hands, grab the handle and whorl around to sling our now boiling dinner, his favorite meal, at my fuming husband.

I am a womon who, no longer pregnant, defends herself with scorching hamburger bits and blistering blood red sauce, slung, not onto the irate face of the man brandishing my broom, but at the last minute, diverted to fly over his shoulder.

But it is enough, the hot pungent mixture grazing an ear, splattering a U.S. Air Force uniformed shoulder, to splat sizzling onto the kitchen walls and floor, not even slightly burning his body, but it is enough to lower his hands, to halt his hostile advance mid-step as he looks at me in shock when words fly with our dinner, you can not hurt me anymore.

I am a womon who does not allow men to hurt her; a womon who knows self-defense; a womon who puts circles of protection around herself, her child, her home.

Yet when the white male stranger stormed on his path toward me today, I did not even see his fist let alone fathom his calm willingness to casually haul off and hit me.

I wish I would have, after failing to block his punch, thought to stick out my foot and trip him as he continued past me into his house. I have amazing reflexes, but they failed me today.

I wish I would have jumped on his huge back as he steadily marched across the sidewalk and then up the stairs into his house and pummeled his round, balding head.